


Iphigenia

by ChaosMidge (NotQuiteInsane)



Series: Wilde Week 2020 [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Memory, Pillow Talk, Scars, mentions of child death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27614936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotQuiteInsane/pseuds/ChaosMidge
Summary: Day 2 -  “Memory… is the diary that we all carry about with us.”Remembering|Forgetting|  RecordingWhat sorts of things does Wilde remember?
Relationships: Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Oscar Wilde
Series: Wilde Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020070
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16
Collections: A Wilde Week 2020





	Iphigenia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vogelwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogelwrites/gifts).



> alsdja;skdj ???????????  
> nobetabarelyeditedit'sstillday2somewhereintheworldi'mstillatworkdon'tjudgemebyyyyeeeeee

What sorts of things does Wilde remember?

He remembers his childhood, his family, his sister.

He remembers the beginnings of his tenure within the meritocracy. He remembers the games he played and the throats he cut (metaphorically of course) to get where he is. He remembers the friends he left behind and the enemies that rose within the ranks with him.

He remembers when he was sworn in as an agent—a true agent, trusted with information he never would have gleaned on his own, a tool of the dragons, an extension of their will, no longer fed tidbits of information like a dying man begging for the smallest morsel.

He remembers many things and writes down what he doesn't think he will.

He burns the papers afterward, watching the black spread across creamy white like a blight.

The words are not for anyone else. Only for him.

Wilde does not remember why he started this life. Doesn’t recall the series of events and considerations that led him to a life of lies and deceit and carefully crafted disguises.

It's been wiped away by the long nights and longer days, by the dossiers on upper class and lower class alike, by the drugs and the fights and the fucks that have made up the backbone of his life for so many years.

Of course, he's a man of words and wit and _information_. He wouldn't be caught dead bloodied or beset by physical threats.

Not unless it was for a fuck, at least.

But all of that...

All of that has somehow, sometime, inexplicably passed into the distant past.

Things are... different now. He's... different now.

He has scars aplenty and they do for him what his memory cannot.

They remind him of things better left to the haze of pain and betrayal and long slugs of liquor to dull the feeling of the needle dipping in and out of skin, stitching the wounds shut when he can't reach a healer in time.

They remind him of the people he trusted and the ones he didn’t—and the ones he let into his bed even though he knew he shouldn’t.

Not even the most revered healer can remove the scars from his body, silver as they are with age. Not even the gentlest touches and heartfelt kisses can wipe away the shame and frustration of their permanency.

Not that Wilde would want to _forget_ , of course. It is only memory that maketh man and any man who wishes to unmake himself is a man that Wilde does not wish to know.

Hide the past, do what you must, but never forget.

Never forget.

Wilde doesn’t bother to hide from Grizzop.

Grizzop traces over the scars with reverent hands and asks him about every single one. Those are the quiet moments, the ones between fucks when both of them are too worn out to do anything but touch and kiss and breathe the charged air between them.

Wilde rarely answers Grizzop’s prodding questions, simply basks in the attention paid to him. But Grizzop doesn’t mind. He seems to understand that the years have pressed deeply into Wilde, deeply enough that some of the scars are older than the goblin himself and yet they remain as a roadmap to the unforgotten. Wilde lets the gentle tickle of claws remind him of each story, of each mission gone wrong, of each liaison gone right.

Grizzop’s hand comes to rest over a small, isolated scar on Wilde’s lower back and presses two fingers to it. His ears flicker once, twice, and he lays himself across the expanse of Wilde’s skin, paying special attention to this mark.

“Oi, this one is older than the others.”

Wilde knows which scar is in question. His breathing hitches. With Grizzop’s hearing, there’s no way he doesn’t hear, but to his immense relief, the goblin doesn’t comment. Whether it is because he is demonstrating uncharacteristic patience or whether he knows that this scar is different, Wilde doesn’t know. But he is grateful.

“It was when I was a child,” he says, and can feel Grizzop tense then relax in that jackrabbit way he has. Ready to move, ready to react, but settling out of respect for the cadence of Wilde’s voice. “I was teaching my sister to climb trees.”

“Didn’t know you had a sister.”

Wilde smiles weakly, pillowing his head on his arms. “She died.”

“How?”

Blunt, as always.

“A sickness. A sickness that we couldn't fix, despite the resources at our disposal. In spite of, maybe.” Wilde’s face turns sour and he tries not to tense as Grizzop pushes a hand into his hair, massaging his scalp. “We couldn’t do anything but watch her waste away, dizzy and confused and crying.”

“The scar?”

“One of the last times she was well enough to play with me outside. I was home on holiday from school. Fell out of the old yew down by the edge of the cemetery and landed on a rock. Isola cried the whole way home, seeing me bleeding like that, but I told her it was alright, that I would be fine. That didn’t stop her clinging to me like a limpet, though.”

“How old was she?”

“Nine.”

Grizzop is silent for long moments.

Then, he leans forward and kisses the edge of the old scar, smooths it with a gentle thumb, and lays beside Wilde. “Long enough to love her.”

Wilde shakes his head. “You can never have long enough to love a person.”

“You didn’t stop loving her when she died, you moron. I meant long enough to have memories to keep in your heart. S’what you do with people you’ve lost, yeah? Love them from afar. Do what you can to keep the memory alive. And one day, when it hurts less, you can smile.”

Wilde sighs and buries his face in his arms. His next words, when they come, are soft. “One of my greatest regrets is not being there when she died. Too busy with my studies to attend to my family.” A bitterness comes out in his voice. “Silly of me, to sacrifice the time I could have had left with her for a few days faffing about at school.”

Grizzop shakes his head. “You couldn’t have known. Death isn’t patient. S’not your fault you couldn’t be there.”

“Wise words, oh Paladin of Artemis.”

“Oi, we Artemesians know plenty about siblings and sacrifice, right?” Grizzop nudges Wilde with his shoulder. “It’s okay to remember. Thanks for—you know, thanks for sharing.”

Wilde turns his head to look at Grizzop again, to look at his wide red eyes, gleaming in the darkness, and the soft, serious expression on his face.

Siblings and sacrifice, eh?

Wilde smiles and pulls Grizzop in closer.


End file.
